


we didn't want to get older

by jbbames (artifice)



Series: put me in the dirt, let me be with the stars [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Birthday, Birthday Presents, Gen, Kid Bucky Barnes, Kid Steve Rogers, pianist Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 13:59:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artifice/pseuds/jbbames
Summary: Ma had to shoo him away from the living room (and the TV in the process!) this morning, saying something aboutsurprisesandpatience.If you ask Bucky, it’s a whole load of... a word he’s not supposed to use.





	we didn't want to get older

**Author's Note:**

> me, chanting: the whole point of this month is that shit isn't supposed to be perfect the whole point of this month is that shit isn't supposed to b
> 
> [edit 07/21/2019]: [series playlist here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6dD3nFHjQtq0HVoRPxbYFs?si=U-IHMVdEQcKP1q5e6kCWoQ)

_All I wanted would become everything I ever loved, I remember_  
_(I left myself in the alleyway)_

* * *

_March 10, 1997_

“Happy birthday, dear Bucky, happy birthday to you!” Steve shouts more than he sings, voice high-pitched and off-tune. Bucky doesn’t mind at all—his grin threatens to split his face with how wide it is, actually, and he squeezes his eyes shut to make a wish.

_I wish me and Stevie can stay happy together forever_ , he chants in his head. Then, opening his eyes, he takes a mighty breath and blows out all eight candles on the cake.

“What’d ya wish for?” Steve’s up against his right side now, slotting perfectly beneath his arm as though he hadn’t stepped back to avoid the smoke from the candles (he’s got an awful sorta asthma, see, and it’d be dev- deva- devastartering if he had an attack).

“Dummy,” Bucky says, but there’s nothin’ mean about it. “If I tell ya, it won’t come true.”

Steve pouts, bottom lip out and eyes big and blue, but Bucky’s not gonna jinx his wish, not on his life. Thankfully, before he loses the battle with his best friend’s puppy eyes, his Ma saves the day, holding up a paper plate (Star Wars themed, because Star Wars is _awesome_ , and he and Steve like to play Luke and Han, and lightsabers out of Crayola markers are _not_ going out of style anytime soon, thank you very much) with a slice of ice cream cake.

“Thanks, Ma!” He chirps, because he’s not a barbarbinkin— _heathen_. Ma just laughs a _you’re welcome_ and sets a plastic fork and spoon on the plate, then goes to slice the cake for everybody else.

(Steve gets the second slice, and they eat from their plates one-handedly and messily. It’s neat; Steve’s still dressed like Luke, black glove one size too big on his left hand, limp at his side. Bucky _could_ lift his arm from Steve’s shoulders and use a hand to hold his plate down from moving all over the place, but why would he do that?)

“We’ve got a big gift for you, James,” Pa says.

“This ain’t got anythin’ to do with how I wasn’t allowed in the living room, do it?”

Ma had to shoo him away from the living room (and the TV in the process!) this morning, saying something about _surprises_ and _patience_. If you ask Bucky, it’s a whole load of… a word he’s not supposed to use.

Pa gives him a wry smile. “Why don’t you go in and see?”

Steve slips out from under Bucky’s arm and twines their fingers together, then promptly drags him out of the kitchen, their parents following close behind. Practically feeling the blond vibrate with excitement, Bucky steps through the entryway, then turns to ask Steve when—

Holy cow.

Holy _cow_.

That’s a _real_ _piano_. Right where his old electric one with 76 keys was: an upright Yamaha, brown finish shining in the lamplight, all 88 keys of ivory and black all shiny and inviting.

Ho. Ly. Cow.

Bucky feels Steve’s fingers slide out of their grip, and he walks to the piano, runs a hand over the surface of the keys, feels the way they give beneath the weight of his arm, and it feels so overwhelmingly _different_. There’s a word for this, he knows—relevant? Rev..? Whatever. That.

“Holy cow,” he whispers, because it’s worth saying out loud, and he plops down unceremoniously on the bench.

He plays the last thing he memorized for Ms. Morita—Sonatina in G major by Beethoven. The notes feel awkward beneath his fingertips, like they always do when he’s adjusting from his electric to Ms. Morita’s grand. As expected, the piece sounds uneven and clumsy to his relatively untrained ears, but he thinks it says something, that he’s the happiest he’s ever been playing a piano.

Steve bursts into applause after he finishes the first movement. Their parents quickly follow suit, and Bucky has to bite down on his bottom lip to physically contain a shout of amazement. Because this is _his_ —this pretty Yamaha sitting against the wall of their small living room, it’s his, and he’s gonna love it. He thinks he might love it already.

He’s glad he spent his big birthday party with the other kids in their grade yesterday; he doesn’t think he could handle anybody but family seeing him so worked up over something that’s not even “cool”.

(But it _is_ cool, he thinks. He touches the gold lettering beneath the music stand, the gleaming YAMAHA logo, and thinks this is the coolest present he could have ever been given.)

After the clapping dies down, he turns to his small audience with a huge smile, missing teeth and all. “Thank you.”

Pa puts a hand on his left shoulder. “This means you gotta take piano seriously now, that clear? I didn’t buy this just for you to slack off.”

Bucky nods vigorously and shares an excited glance with Steve.

“For sure!”

**Author's Note:**

> fuck it i love it hey bucky run up the budget ! *static sounds* u can talk to me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/artificiaIis)


End file.
